Lost In Flight: The 175th Hunger Games
by EY Ink
Summary: It is time for the 7th Annual Quarter Quell, and the 100th anniversary of that fateful day when the rebellion was crushed. All of Panem is watching their screens. The new Head Gamemaker must find something truly spectacular for the Quell. Let the tributes fly. Let the Games begin.


Chapter 1: Fables

The evening sunlight was soft as it shone through the cracks of the shattered wall.

President Dare was taking a walk. His polished shoes traced a crisp path through the debris, occasionally stopping to nudge aside a piece of rusty shrapnel; talcum glistened on his upturned collar; his eyes were calm and emotionless. He always found the remains of the rebel stronghold at District 13 soothing to visit, though anyone who saw him would say emotion of any kind never darkened his cool features.

The underground passageways were silent as the President glided through the knee high piles of rubble. He paused at a corner, took a glance at his surroundings and smiled; a rare gesture of feeling. This was a special place for Panem's rule; a symbol of rebellion and defiance, which the Capitol's army had easily torn down. _Another quote for the Quarter Quell flashcards_, Dare thought wryly, turning swiftly into another long hall, decorated with bullet holes through the ceiling. He didn't pause; his stride had quickened.

Life in the Capitol hadn't changed since that fateful failed revolt. The Mockingjay had been hanged – Dare's great-grandfather, President Snow, had recounted that tale many times with glee – along with all the other leaders of the rebellion; Beetee, Peeta Mellark, Coin, Paylor. The Districts had been retaken with ease. Unrest stirred within their people for many years, but gradually that had softened to a dull remembrance of what might have been.

Turning yet another similar corner to the one before, Dare caught sight of a picture lying in the wreckage. The glass had been cracked and the frame twisted, but the photo itself was still visible through the shards. Curious, he bent to retrieve it and blew the dust from the front. Finding a crack in the glass, he managed to smoothly remove the photo from the inside and gazed at it.

It was a snapshot of Beetee, the chief electronics advisor and inventor of the rebellion in his laboratory. His glasses had slipped to his nose, and his face held a look of utter concentration. On his operating table, under a haze of blue, was a person with a pair of wings.

Or so it seemed. Dare squinted to make out the figure under the blue sheet and failed; the only thing he could make out was the shape of arcing bird's wings and a vaguely human shape through the dark operating gown. What was the old man playing at? Dare stared at the image long and hard, before noticing the words lining the top of the laboratory door.

ROOM 361

He knew that room. He knew that room because he had been there. Spoken of many times by Snow, it was the first place the Capitol's soldiers had attacked when they had entered the compound. Beetee had been coming out of the cryonics storage room when he had been captured; the army hadn't bothered to re-enter it; just blocked the door with an electronic seal. Dare's mind whirled.

He remembered that room, yes he did. He had come across it on one of his earlier strolls, but failed to stay there long.

'Lawson?' The soldier on the other line of his communicator barked an affirmative. Dare peered down into the device and thought for a minute.

'Lawson, does your signal device have a seal breaker?' It was worth a shot. Otherwise, he could come back another day. This was just a curiosity; it could wait…

'Yes, sir. What type of seal have you encountered? I can call to upgrade the breaker if you require a newer version.'

'No, send me the old one. I need it soon.'

Dare had already began to walk, skirting the rubbish with ease as he tried to remember his way to the tiny Room 361. His cloak swirled in the darkness when he rounded a corner; his face was set in a sort of grim hope. What if Beetee had hidden things in the cryogenics facility; new experiments, futuristic weapons designed for rebel use? He almost quivered in delight. Science was his secret passion; with him as President, Panem was guaranteed to have the best services and artillery ever known to man.

And, there it was. In tiny, glowing letters, above a darkened door, were the words ROOM 361. The R was missing, as was the M, but Dare's eyes didn't deceive. This was the real deal. His communicator blinked; looking down, it read 'SEAL BREAKER V1.8 DOWNLOADED.'

His eyes adjusting once more to the gloom, he entered the laboratory. Dust motes hung motionless in the air; the whole room gave the impression of something stuck in time, struggling against all the change going on around it. Beetee's wires and medical journal still lay, untouched, on the desk; Dare vaguely remembered Snow saying the soldiers largely left the lab alone, afraid of its contents.

It was silent. Dare almost walked quieter, as if he was disturbing someone, but decided he was not the type. His long stride echoed across the bare walls, and he looked around for a door. Soon enough; 'CRYOGENICS SECTION' alerted him to the presence of a small door, outlined in blue.

'Caution. Cold Area. Do Not Enter without Proper Supervision,' warned him as he raised his communicator to the entrance. He was cautious enough; nobody but Beetee and possibly his junior medical staff knew exactly what was behind that door, and they were all long dead. The communicator winked again on contact with the door and burned out a seal, melting in from the metal; the mockingjay pin, the symbol of the rebellion. He gritted his teeth, but the seal dissolved again, and the communicator's distant blinking died.

The stark, crisp aroma of frigid air assaulted him on his first step inside, and he had to blink a few times to see clearer in the fog.

The cryogenics facility was in chaos compared to Beetee's elegantly neat lab façade. Books were scattered everywhere, pages torn, covers stained; Dare read a couple of the titles as he went past. _Mastering the Art of Cryogenics_, said one. _Essentials of Transplanting_ read another. He felt an excited chill race up his spine, but continued on.

The main area in the facility held two operating tables, not unlike the ones in the main lab; except, as Dare approached them, he noticed the deciding factor. Stepping closer, his target was seemingly illuminated by the long-dead lightbulb hanging over the sheet- the blue sheet.

The blue sheet that held the wings. Dare's fingers trembled a little, but he composed himself. Never let your guard down, even in a deserted area. Peeling back the sheet, he smelled the rotting stench of flesh, decomposing even after so long in the cryogenics room, but what he saw astonished him.

The wings were real. Seemingly strapped to the back of what seemed to be the remains of a teenage boy, they curled up behind him while he slept. Dare held his breath as he pulled them gently out and spread one to full length; about twelve feet. Pale cream in the dim skylights, they shimmered and swept to the floor in cascades of elegant white feathers.

Dare shivered. Something had happened; something important. Something of ancient myths, stories, fables.

'Lawson, come down here. And bring some of your soldiers with you.'


End file.
